


Safety Goggles

by Anonymous



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Gunplay, Humiliation, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You’re too tense, Grayson.”
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 173
Collections: Anonymous





	Safety Goggles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> Sorely overdue gift for my buddy Q! I hope you like it. <3

**Safety Goggles**

It had not been Slade's mission.

"It wasn't your mission," Dick grits out as he chucks the top half of his Nightwing suit onto the coffee table. Human trafficking ops aren't even Slade's area. And yet, he'd been there, putting a bullet between the trafficker's eyes while Dick kicked a knife out of another perp's hands. Dick had been searching for the trafficker – Regio – for over a month.

Slade lounges on the couch, pulling off his mask. He never had any qualms about making himself comfortable in Dick's apartment. Last time he'd even helped himself to the pad thai takeaway from the fridge.

Dick says, "Don't sit down while I'm yelling at you."

"You're not yelling."

"Yeah? Well I'm going to start in five seconds."

Slade gives a dismissive wave of his hand. "I was hired by some bigwig businessman to take out Regio, who had apparently got a hold of his niece from the Philippines. Can't blame the man, honestly, for wanting him dead."

"I was going to hand him over to the police! He'd have gotten a life sentence!"

Slade arches an eyebrow. "Three free meals a day. A bed. Shelter. Some people don't deserve those things, Grayson. Regio certainly didn't. If you asked me a bullet was too easy a way for him to go."

"That's not for you to decide," Dick says, thinking of the way Slade had shot him. The smooth motion of ducking and spinning. The easy confidence with which he took life, as if he gave it, too.

"He should have been skinned alive and strung up for the crows to feed on." Slade holds out a gloved hand. "Now come here. I'm tired of talking."

Dick bristles at Slade's audacity, but he can't deny that the adrenaline's getting to his head. He's pissed and twitchy and there's nothing better to soothe his nerves than _that_.

So he grasps Slade's bicep and plants himself on his lap, knees on either side of Slade's legs. Slade's tongue is warm and wet and his beard burns Dick's chin and mouth. Dick grinds against him, moaning. Slade breaks away to pull off his gloves, and the moment he does, Dick holds his wrist and sucks his fingers into his mouth. They taste of smoke, of sweat and dirt.

Suddenly there is something cold and hard against his temple. He freezes, not daring to speak, hardly daring to breathe.

"Daddy raised you to not like guns," Slade rumbles, and Dick suppresses a shiver. "But something tells me," the barrel skims lower, over Dick's cheek, beneath his jaw, "you do."

"Are you insane?" Dick whispers. His skin is hot. His heart is going to beat right out of his chest.

Slade tilts Dick's head up with the gun. "You know the answer, boy."

There's a clock on the wall. It’s an old one, Dick got it from a garage sale before he even moved to Blüdhaven. The ticking is very loud. His throat is dry.

Slade stands up, no longer pressing the gun against him, but still holding it in the air. He does not put it back in its holster. "On your knees."

Dick stares at him. He stares at the gun. He reminds himself that Slade does not hurt people for his own pleasure. Not like that.

"I'm waiting, boy."

"Stop calling me boy," Dick says, even as he obeys. The linoleum provides little cushioning for his knees, but he barely feels the discomfort. Not when Slade is gesturing with his gun and saying, "You know what to do," in a low voice, like distant thunder.

Dick begins to unzip Slade's fly with surprisingly steady hands. Why are his hands steady? Is Dick out of his mind? He's on his knees and Deathstroke the Terminator has a gun pointed at him. He doesn't know if the safety's on, doesn't even know if it's loaded. _Come on, brain_ , he thinks, even as he takes out Slade's half-hard cock. _Get with the_ _program_.

He slides his mouth over Slade's cock, eyes shutting automatically. No matter how many times he does it, it's always a little uncomfortable – Slade is...bigger than average, to put it politely.

"You can do better."

Dick opens his eyes to glare at him, but pulls off before sucking the head, swirling his tongue over the slit. There's a hand on his head, urging him to go further. Dick obliges, choking a little as he takes it into his throat, eyes watering. "There we go," whispers Slade. He pets his hair before grasping it and moving his hips, fucking Dick's throat at a leisurely pace.

Dick expects him to come, and braces himself, but Slade pulls out. He blinks. There's a hand on his jaw and Slade says, "Let's see what else you can do with that pretty mouth." He lowers the gun so it is in front of Dick's face. His heart starts beating faster again. "Slade..."

"Stop being coy, Grayson." He knocks the barrel against Dick's mouth. "Use your tongue."

Dick's head snaps up.

"You heard me."

Reluctantly, Dick gives a tentative lick to the barrel. It tastes of grease and smoke. Of Slade. He closes his eyes. Eventually, after his licks get longer, after the gun remains steady, Dick opens up. The shape is unnatural, stretching Dick's lips in an odd way, and it clacks against his teeth. To his humiliation, his cock is getting hard, straining against his pants.

Slade obviously notices; he begins to move the gun, sliding it slowly in and out of Dick's mouth. "You like that?" he says. Dick can hear the smile in his voice. "You like sucking off a gun like a cock? Jesus, Grayson. I always knew you were such a whore."

Dick's face _burns_.

"I could kill you like this."

A hand wraps around Dick's neck. The gun is sliding deeper now, into his throat. Oh God, there is a gun _in his throat_. The thought shouldn't turn him on as much as it does.

Slade guides Dick's hand to his cock, making him jerk it off to the rhythm of the gun's movements. "So dexterous," says Slade with a chuckle. "I should film this. Put it up online. Everyone will be able to see you with your lips wrapped around the barrel of a gun." He squeezes Dick's neck and Dick chokes, hands faltering and scrabbling.

 _Slade_ , he thinks desperately. He can't breathe.

There are spots beginning to dance in his vision when Slade finally lets go and pulls out the gun. Dick collapses onto his hands, hacking and spitting.

"How much do you think they'll pay," Slade asks casually, examining the gun, now glistening with Dick's spit.

"Fuck you."

"If you ask nicely." Without warning he leans down and grasps Dick by the hair, yanking him up.

Dick hisses at the sting. He stumbles as Slade tugs him towards the bedroom and makes him lie on his back on the bed.

"This place is a damn mess," says Slade, without looking around.

"Too bad you're not my dad." He yelps as Slade pinches a nipple.

"For that, I'll spank you."

One minute Dick is on his back, and the next he’s flopped over Slade’s knees off the edge of the bed. “Wh – ”

A hand comes down sharply on his ass and he yelps. 

“Count.” 

“Are you seri – ”

Another smack, harder this time. “Count, or it won’t stop.” 

Dick grits his teeth. “Two.”

“A-ah. From the beginning.” 

A finger runs lightly over one of Dick’s ass cheeks and he suppresses a shudder. “One.”

“Good boy.” 

Something about the way Slade says it, the low, grainly baritone, the easy slowness, the way it’s said as if they were in a crowded room and Slade had to lower his voice for Dick’s ears only, makes him groan. His cock throbs.

The hand comes down again and Dick _whimpers_. “T – two.”

Again and again, a sound like a whip, Dick’s broken counting. Until finally, finally, it stops, and the only sound is that of Dick’s ragged breathing. Slade runs a hand gently over his ass, and Dick winces at the sting. “Such a pretty bottom, kid,” says Slade. Dick can hear the half smile in his voice. “Did your daddy like spanking it?”

Dick’s cheeks _burn_. He’s not sure if he feels angry, ashamed, or weirdly, embarrassingly turned on. “Don’t be ridiculous.” It sounds weak even to his own ears.

“How did he do it, kid? Did he pull down your panties just enough to get at your ass? Did he strip you naked?” A finger runs like a feather over Dick’s crack. 

That, surprisingly, is what makes Dick snap. “If you’re going to fuck me, get on with it. I don’t have time for an old man talking.” 

Faster than he can blink, he is picked up – by his _waist_ , like a damn puppy – and thrown onto his belly on the bed. 

“You know what they say,” says Slade. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Before Dick can say anything further, his asscheeks are pried apart and he feels something soft, warm and wet dragging along his crack. He wants to articulate the wild jumble of thoughts-impressions-feelings in his head but all that comes out is a broken moan. Everything in the world is reduced to Slade’s tongue sliding against his hole, slow and leisurely. He tries to push back, tries to increase the pressure, but Slade grips him by his hips; he will find bruises bloomed there the next day.

There is a scrape of sharp teeth, and Dick whimpers, “Oh God,” and clutches the sheets in his fists.

It’s so filthy, the wet, smacking sounds, the easy confidence with which Slade works at him – and yet it’s completely unsurprising. Slade has never been shy about his body, and never been ashamed of what he likes and dislikes. They haven’t been doing this long – a groping session in an alley here, a blowjob there. Slade fucked him once, in a hotel room with a mini fridge and an honest-to-god chandelier. It was quick, a way to get rid of post-mission jitters and just _get off_ , because Dick hadn’t dated anyone in years and inconsistent sex was just annoying. 

It works. This works. In a weird way, Dick trusts Slade (at least, to not hurt him without being paid for it handsomely first), and Slade is also...sturdy. Dick isn’t exactly a wilting flower – there’s a reason he and Kory worked. He can do slow and sweet but he loves it rough, he loves it hard, and he gives as good as he gets. Slade isn’t going to disintegrate in his hands. 

He is interrupted from his thoughts when Slade’s tongue prods at his hole, worming its way in. Dick bites his lip, and when that doesn’t work, stuffs a bit of the blanket in his mouth and bites down on that instead. 

The tongue is removed, and Dick groans.

“Don’t hold back, Grayson,” Slade says. “Not around me. You can do it around your daddy and your precious little brothers and sisters and friends. I don’t fall into that category.” 

Dick, after a moment, releases the blankets, feeling his cheeks grow warm again.

“Better,” says Slade, and dives back in. When Dick is more or less a quivering mess, he inserts a finger, then another, stroking along Dick’s walls till he finds his prostrate. His fingers are long and thick – Dick’s used toys that were smaller – so it doesn’t take long. And as much as Dick just wants to come, just wants Slade to take him apart _now_ , Slade is on a different page, in a different book, written in a different script entirely. He seems to take as much pleasure in making Dick squirm and growl as in actually fucking him. 

“Slade,” Dick hisses, “I swear to fucking _God_ – ”

“Keep your panties on. Or rather, don’t. You’ll get to come when I decide it.”

“Don’t you – ”

“You’re too _tense_ , Grayson.” He punctuates the word with a sharp twist of his fingers that has Dick gasping. “Always ordering around your team and making sure your little family of bats doesn’t fall apart. Pipe down and _do as I say_.” 

The fingers are removed, and Dick is left feeling empty and unsatisfied. Slade is such a _bastard_. 

And then. 

And then there is something cold and hard, of an odd shape, pressed against his hole. 

Dick’s breath hitches. He goes very still. 

Slade’s breath is cool on his skin. “What say you, boy?” he says quietly. The metal digs against Dick’s flesh, just a little. 

“Slade…”

“If you can’t get past that, I’m going to take your silence as consent.”

There is the sound of a drawer opening and closing, of a cap unscrewing, and then Slade is slipping a generous amount of lube into him with two fingers. As he pulls them out he says, “If you’re used to warming your daddy’s cock, this shouldn’t be too hard.”

He’s wrong. Dick’s never – he’s _never_ – he had a crush on Bruce when he was fifteen but that was over ten years ago, it was –

The barrel presses against him again, insistent. It pushes. Slips. Slade sinks two fingers into him again, stretches him open. There is a sharp burn when the barrel tries to push in again. Dick pants, trying to ignore it, fixing his gaze on a spot on the wall where water had leaked a year ago during a bout of heavy rain – it’s still yellowish, stained. 

It isn’t comfortable. The gun is too hard and textured and unforgiving ( _just like Slade_ , his mind supplies, unhelpfully). When the tip finally slips in, his hole clamping around it, Dick lets out a breath of relief. 

It doesn’t last long.

Slade _pushes_ the gun the rest of the way in in one smooth glide, Dick’s hole stretching wide to accommodate it. Dick isn’t sure what kind of sound he makes: a yell, a whine. “Look at you,” Slade whispers, hoarse, and it’s hot, Jesus it’s hot, to know that he made Slade Wilson lose his cool. “Taking it so perfectly.” He runs a finger around the rim of Dick’s stretched hole. Dick imagines what it looks like, pink and puffy and stretched obscenely around the oblong shape.

Slade begins to move it, slipping it in and out, slowly. He adds another squirt of lube. Dick groans at the feeling, at the cold impartial metal carving its way into his hole. 

“Can you come like this?” Slade asks, pumping the gun faster now. “With my gun in your ass, untouched?” The squelching sounds are beyond obscene, quick and filthy, so filthy. “Imagine how much the Blüdhaven underworld would love to know that they could fuck pretty little Nightwing in the ass with their guns. Would you like that? To be passed around and get a new gun up your ass each time?

“I’m sure they could use your escrima sticks too. Oh yes. Next time we can do that. I’ll fuck you with your escrima sticks and then turn on the electrocution while it’s still inside you. How’s that sound?”

Dick groans. 

“I said,” Slade yanks the gun out till just the tip rests against Dick’s hole and then rams it back inside, all the way, “how does that sound?”

“Yes,” Dick sobs. “ _Yes_.”

“Good boy.”

It is a blur of pleasurepain from there, bright and acidic and swirling like paint. At some point Dick realises he is crying, tears wetting his face and the sheets and there is the tang of salt in his mouth and he feels like he’s drowning. “That’s it,” Slade is crooning, through the waves, as if from a far shore. “That’s it, good boy.” 

When his orgasm hits, it’s electric, wiping everything off his vision. Seconds or minutes pass and when the clouds clear from his head he finds Slade has stopped, petting his side. “All right, kid?” he’s saying.

Dick makes a weak, affirmative sound, and nods his head, unnecessarily. A rough knuckle brushes his cheek. It’s a shockingly intimate gesture, from Slade, more than the sex, more than even the – the gun. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Wh’bout you?” Dick mumbles.

“I’m not some pimply teenager, kid, I can handle some blue balls for a while. We can _resume_ after you decide you don’t want to look like a beached starfish.”

There’s a flicker of annoyance in Dick’s chest, but it goes quickly. He’s too tired and blissed out to feel...much of anything, really. “You gon’ put me in the shower?” he quips, weakly. 

Slade scoffs. “I’m not _that_ charitable.” His weight leaves the bed, and when it returns, a warm wet towel begins to run gently over Dick. When he’s done, Slade repositions him so his head is on a pillow, and pulls the covers up over him till his chin. “This is nice,” Dick says fuzzily, eyelids dragging down. “You’re being so nice, Slade.” He reaches out a hand and flaps it at Slade’s nose. “You’d have made such a good house husband.”

“I’m seriously regretting everything that has brought me to this point.”

“Noooo, no regrets.” Dick giggles. He always gets a bit loopy after really good sex. The last time he’d been this loopy, however, was...probably when he was a teenager, that time with Kory and the bunch of toys she’d procured when she wandered into an adult store. 

“You know I have a gun, right. I don’t have to listen to you crooning like a bilious pigeon.”

“Oooh, he likes _My Fair Lady_!” He giggles again, and holds out his arms. “Cuddle me.”

Slade sighs. 

“Pleaaase.”

“How did any of your relationships last over a week?” Nonetheless, he climbs in next to Dick, looking like he had just sucked on a lemon. 

“Let’s get pizza afterwards,” Dick says with a yawn. 

“We’re not dating.”

“There’s a great place near the crafts museum.”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” says Slade, and turns off the light. 


End file.
